The spray of the shower was a cascade of liquid crystal, beading on a physique that belonged on a Renaissance fresco. I stood under the torrent, water sluicing over the godly architecture of MY body.
Every muscle group was defined with impossible perfection—the eight-pack abdomen that looked like carved marble, the powerful V-taper leading to thighs that could crack stone.
There was no fat, only sheer, functional power honed to an aesthetic ideal.
My current gym session hadn't been about building. What was there left to build? Instead, I'd focused for a solid ninety minutes on the holy grail of peak physicality: mobility and flexibility.
Deep, held stretches that made my tendons sing, complex yoga-like poses that tested the very limits of my kinematic chain. With each movement, I'd felt not a strain, but a subtle unlocking, as if my body was simply remembering a greater range of motion it had always possessed.
